He Meant It
by Linables
Summary: To the complete and utter surprise of both of them, Sherlock turned out to be the first to say "I love you", although it wasn't exactly in a fairy tale scene. This is a short story where Sherlock succumbs to the mortal ailment of illness, John of course being the doctor he is and taking care of his friend. But that might complicate things as much as it mends them. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**He Meant It - Chapter 1**

A BBC Sherlock fanfiction by Linda/Linables

Rated: M for a later chapter, Johnlock everywhere

* * *

"Sherlock, really, how was I supposed to know it was the psychiatrist who did it?"

"Because it was obvious. She had the opportunity, she had the resources, and most importantly, she had all the facts."

John Watson shook his head in a manner that suggested he was raising the metaphorical white flag, once again leaving Sherlock Holmes to his utterly brilliant deductive reasoning which seemed "obvious". He was quite used to it, and he didn't mind. Even if he didn't voice it as much anymore, he was still as awed and appreciative of his best friend's intellect as he'd been when he first met the detective. Also, if he dared to say so himself, he had improved in his deductive skills as well. Yes, he was no idiot, but some things were bound to go unnoticed by anyone other than Sherlock.

The case they had just resolved had involved the death of a severely manic-depressive man who was found alone in his apartment with a single gunshot to the head. He had been working with a psychiatrist at the time of his death, and was on a medication regimen prescribed by her which helped control his illness. In addition to this he had been on house arrest for a public assault which he'd committed during a previous manic episode, and only left his apartment, chaperoned, to attend appointments with his psychiatrist.

When no signs of forced entry were found at the scene, police assumed that the death was a suicide. The problem that this presented was: where did he get the gun? There were no weapons in his apartment by law, and no one had reported a gun missing. The only fingerprints on the gun were the man's own, but police suspected that someone had planted the gun on him while wearing gloves. But who? The biggest clue, Sherlock said, was that an empty package of medicine was found in the apartment, with no reserves - the prescription had just run out. The man had suffered a terrible manic episode after going off of his medicine, and had descended into a fit of paranoid rage, leading him to become suicidal. It wasn't the first time this had occurred, but during the previous time there had been no weapons around. He had just been found huddled in a ball in the corner of his bedroom, rocking back and forth and crying hysterically.

It seemed an incredibly convenient coincidence that he had happened upon a gun right as his medicine ran out, leaving him vulnerable. What's more, the psychiatrist claimed she had happened to "forget" to write his last prescription just days before the incident. No one else, even someone else who wanted to kill him, would have known exactly when his prescription was going to run out. Nor did many people know where he lived, let alone knew the door code. All the psychiatrist had to do was wait for the pills to stop, slip a handgun through the mail slot when she heard crying from inside, and wait for the victim to take care of himself. Just like that, it looked like a suicide.

John shook his head, thinking of how twisted people could be, and then brought the subject matter closer to his area of expertise.

"I hope you didn't spend too much time with those people that you interviewed at the medical centre. Or at didn't get too close to them. Some of them could be really contagious, and the last thing you need is to catch a flu."

Sherlock waved off his concern, nonplussed.

"I'll be fine. None of them were worth getting very close to, they couldn't tell me anything."

"Alright, fine. I just hope you have a strong immune system anyway, that one woman was having a monumental sneezing fit the whole time you were there."

"Don't worry about me," Sherlock uttered, quickly turning to John and giving him a partial smile, as much as he could manage, knowing that his friend _would_ worry about him. He always did. Sherlock didn't really mind, not nearly as much as he let on, but he would never be one to ask for sympathy.

They walked the rest of the way to 221B Baker Street, having concluded the investigation only several blocks away. Once inside, John went to the kitchen to put on a kettle, intending on insisting that Sherlock drink some herbal tea just in case. The consulting detective retreated to the kitchen table and gave his full attention to some experiment that he had been working on for the past few days, giving John the opportunity to study him without being noticed (maybe).

He didn't look particularly ill, although of course symptoms generally didn't show themselves until the virus that causes them had incubated for some time. John sighed. He didn't know why he felt such a need to help Sherlock like some mother fretting over a sick child, but he tried to chalk it up to being a medical professional and the detective being his best friend.

Still, looking at the man poring over his microscope, John knew it was more than that. He had known for some time now, ever since he had given a goodnight kiss to a date who had happened to have curly dark hair and a pale complexion. He had pulled away from her, eyes fluttering open as the kiss lingered on his lips, and all of a sudden all John could see was Sherlock. The woman's face morphed, cheekbones becoming impossibly high and sharp and beautiful, eyes turning from green to piercing icy blue. It struck him at that moment, and since then he had known that he didn't see Sherlock Holmes as a best friend. He saw him as the most gorgeous, exquisite creature on earth, a marvel of a man whom he wanted to touch, kiss, appreciate, and love forever. When he'd gotten home that night, John had poured himself a cold one and laughed despite himself, knowing how ridiculous he was being. This was Sherlock Holmes he was talking about. Impossible.

The tea kettle's whine brought John back into the moment, and he reached into the cupboard to pull out two mugs and the tea bags. He made a mug of elderberry for Sherlock and darjeeling for himself, putting sugar into the elderberry and milk into the darjeeling. John brought the mug to the kitchen table where his flatmate was sitting and placed it near him.

"Drink," he said firmly. "Doctor's orders."

Sherlock, busy with what was apparently a particularly interesting slide, nodded and gave a small "mmh" sound in response. John took that as a positive response, making his way to the couch and hoping that he wouldn't find a full mug of cold tea on the table later that night.

* * *

Okay, got the ball rolling now. I've been wanting to write this for a while, but I'm a lazy fuck who has major trouble getting things started. So I'm glad this is started now. I've been watching a lot of crime documentaries lately, and that really helped me come up with that case I described in the beginning. Also, my own personal experiences with mental illness through my life, but that's enough about me. Let me know what you think, and I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as I can.


	2. Chapter 2

**He Meant It - Chapter 2**

A BBC Sherlock fanfiction by Linda/Linables

Rated: M for a later chapter, Johnlock everywhere

* * *

The next morning, John was jolted out of sleep before his alarm clock rang by a series of loud, sharp coughs. Rubbing his eyes, John sat up in bed and turned his ear towards the door, in the direction of the sound. It was definitely coming from down in the living room or kitchen, and the coughs repeated every couple of minutes in short fits. John sighed, pulling himself out of bed. He had been afraid of this, but Sherlock hadn't been willing to rest, insisting all the while that he would be fine. And Sherlock's stubbornness when he'd made up his mind was not something to be trifled with.

John wearily made his way down the stairs to the living room, finding his flatmate sitting at the kitchen table working on the same experiment from last night. Every now and again he quickly turned to the side and coughed into the sleeve of his dressing gown. John could also see a pile of used tissues in the trash bin, which Sherlock had dragged beside the table. As if to give him more proof of the detective's illness, John then heard a loud sniffle come from his direction.

"Sherlock!" John called out, exasperation showing through his creaking morning voice. "What did I tell you about resting? I was afraid you'd come down with something!"

Sherlock finally turned around to face John, and the doctor could see that his friend's face was tainted with splotches of red around his nose and eyes.

"What are talking about, John? I'm fine, I'm doing fine..."

"Like hell you are!" John said, crossing the short distance to the chair that Sherlock was sitting in. He immediately put a palm flat against the detective's forehead and frowned.

"Sherlock, you're burning up. You need to get some rest, _now_. I'm serious."

The frustration in the doctor's face ebbed away a bit as he looked at his friend, taking in the condition he was in. Despite his irritation, John was above all concerned. The last thing the world's only consulting detective needed was to be sick. Sherlock's eyes flicked from John's face to his microscope, back to John's face, to the door of his bedroom, back to his microscope. He was obviously fighting some kind of internal battle over whether to follow his friend's orders (alright, he _was_ a doctor, he was to be trusted in these kinds of situations) or to continue going about his day as if nothing was wrong. Finally, a twinge of consent flickered across his face and Sherlock slowly got up, nodding at John as he made his way to his bedroom.

"Please try to sleep some, Sherlock!" John called after him. "I'll bring you some medicine when I come back from work."

A noise of acknowledgement came from Sherlock's open doorway, and John returned upstairs to get started on his morning routine. He wasn't completely convinced the detective would do as he asked, but he had done all he could. There were too many appointments today, he couldn't afford staying home from work. All John could do was hope that Sherlock heeded his advice.

In his bedroom, said consulting detective lay on his bed but didn't close his eyes. He supposed he would take a short nap, to make John happy and because he admittedly _did_ feel awful. Still, Sherlock knew perfectly well what happened when he was forced to be idle, and he avoided it at all costs. Staying in the bedroom all day would drive him crazy. His eyelids drifted shut though, and remained that way until he heard the distinct sound of the flat's door closing as John left for work. He opened his eyes, glancing through the open door at the kitchen table with his abandoned experiment. He closed his eyes again. The insides of his eyelids were dreadfully boring. Open again. He sighed. Sherlock silently cursed and swore that the next time he interrogated people at a medical centre, he would wear a damn mask.

When John opened the door to the flat that evening, he was hoping very hard that he would find the living room and kitchen empty, with his sick flatmate sleeping in his own bedroom. He had known all the while that this was rather a futile hope, but he clung onto it until the last second. As he stepped into the flat, he noted that it was quiet. All except for a low hum that came from the direction of the kitchen. Raising an eyebrow, John took a few steps, turned towards the kitchen, and immediately sighed in defeat.

Sherlock, dressed in his night clothes and dressing gown, was in front of the refrigerator, the open door causing the humming sound that John had first heard. When he didn't move for several long moment, the army doctor pointedly cleared his throat to alert the detective of his presence. Immediately Sherlock's head popped back out of the icebox, his hands quickly shutting the door. He looked terrible.

"What exactly are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked, not even sure he wanted to know.

The taller man took a few moments to consider his answer, coughing into his fist before looking up at John with watery eyes.

"I...well, I was putting something...something I was working on in the fridge. The chemicals need to be cold, you see. Then I just felt that the cold was so refreshing, I couldn't help staying there for a bit."

John rubbed his temples, eyes squeezing shut and head shaking. He considered that A) Sherlock was once again putting his experiments in the fridge – with the _food_, for heaven's sake! – and B) Sherlock was so feverish that he had resorted to cooling himself down by jamming his head into the refrigerator. John took a deep breath. He placed the bottle of medicine he had bought from the pharmacy on the counter beside him.

"Okay. Okay, I'm not even going to ask for an explanation because it doesn't matter right now. What matters is that you take some of this medicine and get the hell to bed, because seriously, Sherlock, look at yourself. It's a wonder you're standing. What was so important that you couldn't just stay in bed like I asked?!"

"Well I got some new samples from the mortuary and they'll be useless if they rot, so I had to–"

John cut him off, apparently reconsidering his choice of asking that question, and focused solely on dosing out the medicine into the little cup that came with the bottle.

Sherlock had to fight off a small smile. Somewhere in his foggy, illness burdened mind, he couldn't help but marvel at how much fuss the army doctor made over his well being, and him in general really. Sherlock realized long ago that he appreciated it more than he cared to admit...he was glad to have a friend. A real, true, honest friend. Up until the point when he met John Watson, Sherlock had done very well to function without any sort of sentiment clouding up his sense of reason and logic. His mind palace had been free of family rooms and doors with "do not disturb" signs hanging from the handle. It had been just him and his facts. But after John became his flatmate, cracks started appearing in his perfect machine of a mind. It was no longer pristine and clinical and calculating, something was tainting it. Sentiment. It had shocked him at first, but over time he had learned to not mind so much.

He had crossed into dangerous territory only when that sentiment had started to bubble up and evolve and expand, all of a sudden becoming a whole different animal. This alarmed Sherlock greatly. Suddenly he was noticing things like how gracefully John's muscles moved when he pulled his jumper off during a hot day, or how his lips looked when they were pressed around the rim of a teacup. He started to feel a burning ache somewhere in his chest when John brought women to the flat. This ache – he couldn't name it, new as it was – had flared up harder than ever before when his friend had come home with a purplish, reddish mark on the place where his neck meets his shoulder. Sherlock had done a quick analysis. Skin pinched, broken capillaries, bruise forming, caused by what looked like teeth, possibly human teeth. Hickey. Sherlock had clicked his own teeth together and left the flat for the rest of the evening.

Back in the here and now, Sherlock felt something being shoved into his hand and looked down to see the small cup of medicine that John had been preparing. Said man was staring daggers at him right then, so the detective quickly downed the bitter tasting liquid. John then produced a capsule and a glass of water, letting Sherlock know that it was a sleeping pill since god knows he needed it, and he took that too.

The next thing he knew he was being dragged by the army doctor towards his room, and then he was getting into bed, and John was closing the door behind him and saying he'd be back to check on him later. When he followed through on that promise, Sherlock was floating on a precipice between consciousness and sleep, a soft smile on his face. Satisfied at seeing his icy blue eyes closed, John had begun to retreat from the room. That's when he heard something tumble from the detective's lips that froze him to the spot. John grabbed the doorframe, eyes wide.

"I love you, John..."

* * *

Now we're getting somewhere!

I apologize if you guys were expecting a long epic of a story, that's not something that I really do...I'm thinking one or two chapters after this. I hope I'm doing this amazing series and beautiful pairing some justice with this little story though. Once again, let me know what you think and I'll keep going. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**He Meant It - Chapter 3**

A BBC Sherlock fanfiction by Linda/Linables

Rated: M for a later chapter, Johnlock everywhere

* * *

The next few days passed without much incident, now that John had finally convinced Sherlock that he needed sleep. The sleeping pills he ground into his tea every now and then didn't hurt either. But in any case the detective was finally starting to recover from his illness, much to the army doctor's delight...and nervousness.

The day that Sherlock's fever broke, John squirmed in his seat as he sat with his computer, typing a new entry for the blog. He was of course relieved and glad that his friend was getting better, but once Sherlock was back to normal John feared that he would completely take back what he had uttered that one night from his bed as John was closing the door. Or, possibly even worse, he might not recall the words at all.

After John had managed to get the blood in his veins flowing again upon hearing those words, he had quickly slipped out of Sherlock's room and shut the door behind him. He then retreated to his own room, not quite knowing how to process the situation. Surely the detective was just groggy on medication and lack of sleep and therefore not in his right mind. That was the only reasonable explanation. John had been privy to many of Sherlock's most emotional situations over the time they'd known each other, and in no case had the man shown or voiced his feelings. If Sherlock even had feelings (which some did doubt), he certainly wouldn't go blurting them out while completely lucid.

The aftermath of his flatmate's statement had left John grappling with a specific inner turmoil. He couldn't easily believe the words he'd heard, but his chest pounded, his stomach twisted, his heart was in his throat and _damn_ if he didn't want them to be true. If only, John thought. If only there could be truth in those words, he would be the happiest man in the world. But he knew that they couldn't be true, they would only linger in his brain for the rest of his life and make him feel a stab of depression every time Sherlock's mouth opened and the words that came out of it weren't "I love you, John".

And now that Sherlock was recovering, John was sure he would never hear those words again. He wasn't even sure how he could look his friend in the eyes without showing signs of nervousness. Of course he would try to hide it, but this was Sherlock Holmes we were talking about. There was no hiding anything from him. He would ask John what on earth the matter was, and John would want so much to tell him the truth, to ask whether he'd actually meant those words or not. But breaching that subject was not something John could do lightly. He imagined he'd be a blabbering, embarrassing mess before he got the first word out.

When John found Sherlock in the kitchen the morning after he'd started to really recover, he swallowed a lump in his throat. Willing himself to stay cool if at all possible, he made his way down the stairs and entered the kitchen. As he put the tea kettle on to boil, the doctor could feel his heart starting to speed up.

"Good morning," he choked out, voice sounding less steady than John would have liked but passable. "I see you're feeling better."

Sherlock looked up from his work and smiled at John innocently.

"Good morning John. Yes, I woke up and felt quite a lot better so I decided I should get back to work on this."

"Well that's great, I'm glad."

John's teacup wobbled in his hands as he carried it to the table. He stole a look at Sherlock as he busied himself with work, noting that the detective did indeed look quite a lot more healthy. He was tempted to reach out a hand and feel Sherlock's forehead to make sure that his fever had definitely broken, but stopped himself. He couldn't touch Sherlock right now, he wasn't sure he could take it while not knowing if the man wanted more the same way he did.

The silence that followed was awkward for John. He felt like he should say something but had no idea what would come out of his mouth if he opened it. So he just fiddled with his teacup, swishing the contents around and occasionally taking quiet sips, not knowing what else to do. His eyes darted around the room, trying to find something to focus on, but everything in the apartment was so connected to Sherlock that it only filled John's mind up with the detective even more. He was counting the number of books that lay piled up in the living room when his flat mate spoke.

"You're nervous, John."

It was a statement, not a question. John tensed immediately, no doubt only confirming Sherlock's analysis. When he didn't answer, the dark haired man pressed on.

"Why are you nervous?"

John's mind buzzed. Sherlock, as he feared, didn't seem to remember the words he had uttered a few days ago. Or maybe he did, and he was testing John to find out his reaction. Or maybe he didn't, and was just being annoyed by the doctor's fidgeting. Thoughts colliding, John wondered if this was what Sherlock felt like all the time, mind never stopping.

Sherlock said nothing else out loud, instead choosing to glance every now and again at John with an inquisitive look before going back to his experiment. The sharp gaze of those icy blue eyes spoke volumes, making John's head spin. He blinked, and his lips parted. Then it was as if he was outside his own body, listening to himself speak the words that his mouth formed, eyes going out of focus and voice sounding almost foreign on his lips. Once the words were spoken, John snapped back to reality, immediately wincing as he realized his thoughts were now out in the open.

"Sherlock, did you mean it? What you said?"

The tiniest flash of interest went through the detective's eyes before his expression relaxed back to its usual calm state.

"You're going to have to be a little bit more specific, John, I've said lots of things."

John swallowed, momentarily squeezing his eyes closed and wringing his hands together, knowing he had dug himself into a hole that he could not get out of. After only minutes of interaction with Sherlock, it was time to give in. The doctor opened his eyes and forced himself to look at his flat mate.

"What you said that first night when I gave you medicine. You said...you said...that you loved me. Right before you fell asleep...do...you remember?"

John prepared himself for a rebuttal. None came. He looked up, seeing that the flash of interest had returned to Sherlock's eyes, this time staying there. John squirmed. Sherlock templed his fingers beneath his chin and looked at the nervous army doctor.

"Yes, I remember."

John's breath hitched.

"...And?"

"I meant it."

John's head spun. He was positive that his brain could not even begin to process this information, it was just too impossible. There was no way that the world's only consulting detective, who functioned on pure science and no sentiment, had just confirmed that he loved him. _Him_.

Sherlock watched the reaction that his statement had on his best friend, and he couldn't help but smile softly. John looked absolutely gobsmacked, but the pinkness of his cheeks betrayed his feelings about the new information. While the doctor was still sitting, frozen to the spot, Sherlock got up from his chair and rounded the table with quick strides. He leaned down, hesitating for only a scant moment before placing a kiss on John's flushed cheek. Before he could pull away though, the soldier snapped out of his trance and his reflexes kicked in, slipping an arm around Sherlock and pulling him down quick as lightning.

Before the detective had time to react there was a wonderful pair of warm lips pressing against his own, kissing as if it was the only chance they ever would get. Sherlock blinked rapidly, falling in line and responding as best he could. What he lacked in experience, he made up for in desire, at least when it came to John Watson. And if he had his way, this certainly would _not_ be the last time those lips touched his, and his experience would grow by leaps and bounds.

As they parted, John's last bits of inhibition crumbled. Words previously kept under lock and key tumbled hastily from his lips, and he meant every last one of them.

"I love you more than I have ever loved anything in this world, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Well now, look at that. I've gone and turned the corner towards flufftown. Is it me, or is it starting to feel slightly smutty in here? Could that just be the next chapter? Must be. Stay tuned.


	4. Chapter 4

**He Meant It - Chapter 4**

A BBC Sherlock fanfiction by Linda/Linables

Rated: M for THIS CHAPTER, Johnlock everywhere! SEXYTIMES AHEAD. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

* * *

So sorry for the wait on this chapter. I've been busy with family commitments and some projects that I've been doing under a deadline. Hope this longer chapter makes up for it! Enjoy!

* * *

The next few weeks were consumed by new cases that Lestrade needed help on - desperately, according to Sherlock. The man really did seem to have the most uncanny timing, often to the dismay of both the detective and the doctor. It seemed that not minutes after John had made his last confession in the kitchen, pulling his flat mate down for a desperate and beautiful kiss, said man's cell phone had rung. Sherlock had initially ignored it in favour of giving his attention to John, but by the third time it rang within ten minutes, he couldn't ignore it anymore.

That had eventually led to the two now being at the scene of an apparent murder-suicide incident, Sherlock pulling on his gloves to examine the body of a woman with no apparent wounds but a distinct blueish colour to her face. She also seemed to have been twitching violently and uncontrollably before death, if the disarray of the rug and other objects around her were of any indication. There was also a man sitting in a chair nearby, arched unnaturally over the chair back and frothing slightly at the mouth. In his spasming he seemed to have knocked over the table he had been sitting at. This had interested Sherlock greatly, and he had spent an uncharacteristically long period of time studying him.

A few minutes into his examination of the woman, the detective heard his phone's text alert. Hiding his face, he rolled his eyes slightly and cracked a hint of a smile while pretending to be absorbed in the examination of the victim before him. He knew who was texting him, as it had only been one person ever since he had arrived on scene. Sherlock finished with the body quickly, slipping his phone out of his pocket and taking a fast glance at the text. He was just a bit mortified with how much his face heated up in reaction, and he tried to shake it off but got called on it by Lestrade anyway. Pestering git. Luckily, Sherlock managed to pass it off as "still feeling a bit feverish".

Glancing again at the message after cooling his head, Sherlock chuckled quietly. The messages just kept getting more forward...this was going to be a distraction if it kept up in the future.

_Just letting you know I appreciate you bending over to examine that body. Your arse looks fantastic._

_JW_

Sherlock quickly fired back a reply, glancing at John all the while. The army doctor had been discussing the case with on scene police, but had apparently been able to sneak a moment to text the man at the other end of the large dining room. And if the content of the message was any indication, he'd also had time to stare rather shamelessly.

_Getting into dangerous territory, watch out now, Doctor Watson._

_SH_

Admittedly the time spent on crime scenes these past few weeks had made both men quite restless and anxious, which came as a shock to Sherlock, who had always been at his best while on the case. As much as he hated to admit it, it seemed that he was not immune to the ever-so-human ailments of attraction and lust. He and John loved each other - an idea which was still so mind-bendingly incredible, in the best way possible - but they had been restricted to quick kisses and touches while the investigations pressed on. They had either been too busy, too tired, or on unfortunate occasions, both. It seemed perfectly understandable that the longer they were denied their desires, the greater those desires grew. An idea which was obvious from the next text that Sherlock received. He looked up at John as he fetched his phone, seeing a flash of a wicked grin on the doctor's face.

_That's what I'm aiming for._

_JW_

Sherlock would later deny choking up a bit upon reading this, but he still had to answer to a questioning Lestrade, who approached him then to ask for facts about the case. Quickly, Sherlock rattled off his observations, already starting to walk towards John.

"Strychnine poisoning. Explains the muscle spasms, cyanosis, frothing and the position of the man. He died later than she did, probably by a couple of hours. He killed her, then accidentally killed himself later when he grabbed the wrong vodka bottle, having put the poison into one from his stash that we saw in the liquor cabinet earlier. The bottle is on the floor, it fell off the table that he knocked over. Might want to get poison control here immediately. Goodbye."

With that, the detective strode over to John, the man immediately falling into step beside him as they exited the crime scene.

* * *

In the seconds following the closing of their flat's door, the temperature seemed to rise by several degrees. Sherlock scrambled to grab John by his collar, bending down to push their lips together. John responded in earnest, angling his head and parting his lips to deepen the kiss. They parted for a scant second, giving John the opportunity to take control and place his hands flat against Sherlock's chest, pushing him towards the nearest wall. The taller man's back hit the wall, and he grabbed onto the doctor with more vigour, hands wrapping around his torso.

It hadn't taken many times for kissing to become second nature to them, and it now happened just about as naturally as breathing. Perhaps the newness of the experience just ignited their instincts in a major way, fuelled by adrenaline, or perhaps they both had skills that they hadn't paid heed to until now. Whatever, neither gave it any thought right now, all that mattered was that it felt _oh so good_ when their lips parted against the others' and their tongues brushed together and everything was so warm.

It had surprised him greatly, but Sherlock found that he secretly loved letting John take control when they came together for sessions like these. Being who he was, always in control of the situation and acting as the alpha for all those around him, this was an exhilarating change. Of course he would sometimes take the reins himself (he had picked up quite a few skills over the past few weeks, as John would attest), as he had done when he initiated the kiss minutes earlier. But still, he couldn't deny that it opened a whole new world of experiences when he allowed John to do things like push him up against the wall and hold him there, hands never leaving his body as he was snogged senseless.

John felt Sherlock smile against his lips, and he pulled away with a smile of his own. One hand was fisted in the detective's coat, which had yet to come off in the hurry, and the other was tangled in his dark curls, holding him down. Panting from the exertion, John started working on the coat, undoing the buttons and hanging it haphazardly on whatever he could reach. Looking up at Sherlock, whose brilliant eyes were glowing with a rare kind of fire, John chuckled softly.

"What's happened to us? Weren't we just flat mates the other day, and now we're snogging in the foyer like a couple of teenagers."

Sherlock grinned, running his hands down the wooly sleeves of John's jumper.

"For once, I really don't know. But it's...enticing, and quite wonderful, and I'd like it to continue."

Hearing those words meant so much to John. He replied sincerely.

"And so would I."

Words became superfluous at that time, and the men started towards Sherlock's room, shoes and John's jumper being shed on the way. It was true that this had all happened quickly, like both parties had been overwound springs that were finally released. It had been initially surprising, but in no time they fell into a rhythm, and neither had any more desire to go slowly. They had lost each other before, had been distant both physically and emotionally, to the brink of collapse. They would not let that happen again. Now, they were adamant that they would come closer together than ever, to make up for the separations and turbulence that they'd experienced on their way to this point.

They stumbled as they stepped into Sherlock's bedroom, neither giving adequate attention to anything but kissing the other. They manoeuvred sideways through the open doorway, John kicking the door shut behind him. The next thing he knew, his back hit the duvet of his flatmate's bed and said man was kneeling above him, supporting his weight on all fours and breathing heavily. John pulled him down, also shuffling further up the bed so that his whole body was atop it. They kissed languidly for a time, enjoying the wetness and warmth of each other's eager mouths and tongues. Once the pace grew too slow, John lifted a hand up to start unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.

The detective pulled away to shrug the garment off when he finished, and immediately returned the favour, pulling John's t-shirt over his head and tossing it aside. John's neck was then lavished by a series of tentative nips and licks, the actions growing bolder as the recipient let out a thankful groan. One of Sherlock's hands ran over John's chest, and the man shivered in pleasure. He was so distracted as the long, nimble fingers brushed against his nipples that he hardly noticed as the other hand started to undo his fly.

John gasped slightly as the act was completed, but offered no objections, instead leaning back and lifting his bum off of the bed so the trousers could be pulled down his legs. His pants were gone as well within what seemed like a few seconds, and only after he was completely naked was there any sort of pause in the action. Sherlock fixed his eyes on John's straining erection, just studying. A bit of heat rose to John's cheeks, hoping that the detective wasn't going to analyse every detail of the coming act, but his thoughts were quickly shooed away as a hand wrapped delicately around his shaft.

He couldn't stop the moan that escaped his lips, but far from minding, the sound only encouraged Sherlock to grip more firmly and begin to run his hand up and down. John cracked his eyes open – not having realized he'd closed them – and saw Sherlock smile, dispersing any remaining doubts John might have had. A few more strokes had John shuddering, and he knew this night would be embarrassingly short if he let this pace keep up. So with a burst of energy, he sat up, placing a hand on Sherlock's chest and pushing him to the bed, reversing their positions.

An inquisitive look crossed the detective's face, but was quickly extinguished as John set to work on his trousers, making quick work of them and his pants right after. He was quite good at upholding a calm, collected facade, but John could see that this was cracking, face flushed and mouth slightly open, breath falling heavy. His dark curls were in disarray against the white sheets, and his chest moved pointedly up and down as John's hands neared the erection laying on his pale stomach. John almost shuddered himself, truly having trouble remembering the last time he'd seen something so beautiful. Sherlock's body, always hidden under clothing, was so pale that it almost glowed, limbs lean and wiry but laced with surprisingly strong muscle. Damn if he wasn't exquisite, John thought as he leaned down to wrap a hand around the detective's shaft, his lips touching the head immediately after.

Sherlock groaned, breath quickening further and body trembling at the new sensation. John's lips slipped further down, taking in as much as he could, holding there and pulling up only to run his tongue deftly over the underside and swirl it around the tip. Drops of pearly liquid gathered at the slit as John's tongue skimmed it, and then his mouth engulfed Sherlock's cock again with way too much skill for his own good, the detective determined. He was beginning to feel a pressure pooling in his loins when John pulled up, smiling wickedly at his lover and crawling back up over his body. He quickly kissed Sherlock before trailing his lips to his ear.

"Have you...have you got that stuff we bought somewhere?"

Sherlock gestured towards his bedside drawer, and John immediately leaned over to rummage through the drawers. He pulled out a bottle of lube, a purchase that they had made some time ago before getting pulled into a maze of new cases. Opening the bottle, John squeezed some of the clear gel onto his fingers and his hand wandered into new territory, slipping between Sherlock's legs and brushing against the cleft of his arse.

"This alright?" he inquired, receiving a nod from the dark haired man lying beneath him. Despite the heat and urgency of the situation, John needed to know that he wasn't moving all too fast. Earlier conversations had revealed that Sherlock, though clearly not a saint, was indeed missing experience in this area. John was both nervous and exhilarated about the idea of being the one to take the man's virginity.

With his positive response, John pushed the first finger in, pausing afterwards to give Sherlock time to get used to the intrusion. It was slightly odd at first, just a bit uncomfortable, but this was brief and soon Sherlock bucked his hips experimentally. Taking the silent invitation to continue, John slipped in another finger and scissored them a few times to encourage the muscles to relax. When he was quite sure Sherlock was ready for him, John withdrew his fingers and reached for the bottle of lube. He squeezed some more out and slicked it over his own cock, settling himself in between Sherlock's legs.

They shared a look that said everything which needed to be said. Sherlock's normally composed face was glazed with lust, begging for John to finish what he had started. The doctor was sure he looked very much the same, as consumed by want as he was. So he grabbed one of Sherlock's long legs and hoisted it over his shoulder, pulling him as close as possible as the tip of his prick breached the detective's entrance. He took care to sink in slowly, letting Sherlock adjust, but by the time he was fully in both were just about shaking.

As he gave his first thrust, Sherlock tried and failed to bite back a keening moan. John squeezed his eyes shut, letting the sensation wash over him, and he pushed in and out again. His hands gripped Sherlock's hips, and he began to build up a rhythm, encouraged by the sounds that Sherlock had resigned to making. They were quite exquisite and John promised himself to try and convince his lover to make as much of them as he wanted. He moaned himself as Sherlock's hips rocked against his own, making John sink deeper into the detective with every thrust. Then he managed to angle his thrusts and Sherlock's willing body just so, letting his member brush against the other's prostate with each thrust. The younger man gave his loudest moan yet, and it fuelled John until he started to feel his peak grow close.

Holding back as best he could, John wrapped one hand around Sherlock's own throbbing erection, feeling it pulse against his hand as he stoked vehemently. When he saw the detective's perfect cupid's bow lips squeeze shut, face slipping into an enraptured expression, John knew the man was reaching his own climax. With a few more hard thrusts, John let himself go, calling out Sherlock's name and hearing it mix with his own as they reached their first mutual orgasm.

John emptied himself into the tight channel clenching around him, feeling Sherlock's come slick his stroking hand and the man's own stomach. As he came down from the high, John tumbled down onto the bed, pulling out of Sherlock and instead gathering the panting detective up in his arms. For a time they just looked at each other while catching their breaths, content to lie there and forget everything that didn't involve the two of them. When he deemed himself capable of speech, John broke the silence.

"Well, that was...even better than I'd imagined."

Sherlock nodded, smiling a very rare, gentle smile that John felt privileged to witness.

"It was wonderful. How many times have you imagined that, then?"

John blushed a bit.

"Er...well, I haven't counted. Every now and again...for quite a few months."

"So, 'not gay', correct?"

John laughed, playfully rolling his eyes.

"Yes, well, what will your work say? Aren't you married to it?"

"It's an open marriage."

In reply, John only pulled Sherlock in for a kiss, which he willingly accepted and returned. The last of his energy exerted, John flopped back onto the bed.

"Well, I'm beat. You don't mind if I...if I stay here, do you?"

Sherlock smiled.

"I'd have it no other way, Doctor Watson."

* * *

Well there you have it. Don't know if there'll be another chapter to tie things together or not, depends on what my muse allows me (or doesn't allow me) to do. If not, have a nice, smutty, happy ending. :)


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